Fifty Things
by Existence's Bane
Summary: There are many things Cesare loves about Chiaro. But he has a top fifty, as it were. Slash, fluff, canon. Request by MLE, my friend. There will be ten chapters in all. If you have an idea for a thing, please tell me in a review. Spoilers.
1. Five Things

_Hello, readers_._ Here we are again with another Cantarella fanfic_._ I just hope that you enjoy_._ Read, review, request—such things please me_.

_Disclaimer_:_ I don't own Cantarella_…_sadly_._ Pity, please_.

_Warning_: _Slash, folks_._ Guy/guy lovin'—but no sex, hence the low rating!_

* * *

_**Five Things**_

_**Chapter One**_

_**By Cezzy**_

Cesare was not asleep. But he could pretend.

The Church called it wrong. It called it evil. It called it sin, done by heathens and heretics.

Bu then, were _those_ bureaucratic idiot masses infested by demons from Hell? Cesare begged to differ.

Cesare only allowed himself to blink when his eyes were on the verge of watering and spilling over; he was deathly afraid the angelic vision of magnificence would vanish, like a mirage. It was too beautiful to belong to Earth.

_Let alone you,_ the darkness leered at him, sensing the direction of his thoughts.

Cesare paid no mind. They were still young; it had only been a year ago that the young assassin had come under his wing. There was time for that later. Surely, good things happened to those who waited…and later pursued.

The first drops of rain splattered on the chipped pane of glass that the innkeeper had optimistically called a "window". Truly, Cesare thought to be merely a hole in the wall covered by a block of hazarded glass. In response, the nose of sleeping Chiaro—who was sharing the flea-ridden mattress with him—twitched.

Cesare blinked. _I like it when he does that_, he decided firmly.

He twisted his fifteen-year-old body in the bedsheets—stained by occupants and by things that he refused to think about—entangling his legs in them. He laid his head on his bent arm, thin strands of gracefully waved hair fluttering as he breathed. No—that was Chiaro's breaths whistling quietly out of his nostrils to quiver Cesare's hair. Cesare could not suppress a small shiver at that revelation.

_What else do I like about him?_

* * *

1) Cesare likes it when Chiaro twitches his nose; it causes an adorable clenching in his eyebrows and brings out dimples on one side of his mouth.

* * *

Cesare blinked.

Then he blinked again.

Chiaro already had his eyes squeezed shut as his mouth was open wide, tumultuous and gleeful laughter erupting from parted lips. He lolled back upon the groaning chair as full-throated mirth-filled hoots spewed from him.

After a full thirty seconds, he recovered, with a few minor relapses into quick, embarrassingly (and, as Cesare found them, oddly cute, which he did not deign to pursue in his mind) snorty giggles.

* * *

2) Cesare likes Chiaro's real laughter, when it is only the two of them; it is humiliating and explosive, but to see Chiaro that way is both fun to observe and invites chances to tease him all-knowingly later.

* * *

Chiaro took good care of his boots.

They were all from exclusive retailers, with springy, supple, bendy leather hand-chosen directly from the tanners. He took at least one afternoon every two weeks to slowly, carefully polish them with a strange mixture that Cesare only knew half the ingredients of—tallow, goat hoof shavings, and congealed olive oil to name a few.

When Cesare once demanded just _what_ was so extraordinary about his footwear, Chiaro had solemnly insisted that it might save his life one day, and Cesare grudgingly realized this to be true; the smallest wrench in the grand design could ruin a masterpiece.

He would then take his time to cautiously stride down one corridor, stepping lightly and deliberately. He had always done this, ever since he had come under Cesare's wing.

* * *

3) Cesare likes Chiaro's walk. When he was younger, he had no idea why, but he just knew that somehow, it was very nice to watch.

* * *

Cesare could feel the sun poking burning hot pokers through his eyelids as a golden tinge entered through them. He kept his eyes closed, however, along with every other cardinal, feigning dutiful, obedient prayer. His robes were thick and woolen, not allowing a healthy breeze to graze his glistening, flushed skin.

As the final murmurs of the communal cardinal's prayers were murmured sluggishly, Cesare rose, muscles quivering and aching.

Chiaro was beside him in an instant, lightly and instinctively pulling a curtain of stringy brown hair off the back of Cesare's sweaty neck.

* * *

4) Cesare likes the way Chiaro is always there to serve—even kill—without question. And he likes to know that it's all for him.

* * *

Chiaro's singing voice was not pleasant.

But strangely, Cesare loved it.

Chiaro did not ever sing apart from when he bathed in the natural pools outside the city walls, nit even in his church hymns. And he did not truly sing—not that it could have been that in the first place. Rather, he belted his tune-lacking, croaky voice so that it was quite possible that people in Naples heard him. He went all out—for better or, certainly in his case—worse.

His voice was horrendous.

He was never on any pitch in particular. He was flat, screeching, and sounded somewhat like a blond pterodactyl.

What made it worse was that, according to a suspicious Volpe, he got this huge, satisfied smirk upon his face every time it happened.

* * *

5) Cesare likes it when Chiaro sings. He honestly does not know why, but he likes it.


	2. Ten Things

_After this, eight chapters left!_

_Disclaimer_:_ All except the list and the plots of each short story belongs to You Higuri_._ Because she's just awesome that way_.

_Warnings_:_ Slash—homosexual lovin' for the menses!_

_Author's Note_:_ In the first ficlet here, Cesare calls Giovanni a "goodman", a term that was polite only if used from one commoner to another_._ If a noble calls another noble that, as in this case, it is a thinly-veiled insult_.

_And Chiaro gets a little touchy-feely_._ Finally_.

_**Ten Things**_

_**Chapter Two**_

_**By Cezzy/Cory**_

The man was nervous. That much was apparent by the stringy hair clinging to his sweat-sticky forehead and the quick puffs that whistled through his greasy, hooked nose. His glassy eyes peered past the droopy skin that hung from his skull like melted wax, hastening to look from each face. His expressions shifted from the most insufferable extremes: from disdain to a quietly repulsed Volpe; to distractedly incredulous, prying insult to the strange masked man that always hovered a bare few feet from his rumored friend from Perugia School; to a various blend of weedy imploration and a subtle, instinctual fear that he didn't want to examine towards the Borgia.

"Lord of Pesaro. I have called you before me on the grounds that you knowingly and willingly allowed your petty soldiers to hassle Lucrecia Borgia in a coarse manner. Do you deny it?" Cesare demanded softly. His eyes were half-lidded and his lips pressed together, forcing the full mouth into a warning frown.

Giovanni gulped. "Now Cesare—is this all necessary?" He had attempted a tone of voice that a father would use to reprimand a stupid or obstinate child, but it came out as a creaky waver.

Cesare looked up slowly until his violet eyes met Giovanni's dark ones. "I am aware that it is polite to shield virginal women from men of those sorts, which would undoubtedly have ill will towards your lady. Are you not?"

"It was all in a bit of fun, Cesare—"

"With all due respect, Lord of Pesaro—" Cesare told him in gently hushed tones as he forced an effort not to stress the word _due_—"I am addressed as Lord Cesare."

"Eh…yes. Of course. Really…Lord Cesare, it was a mere reward for the men. They have been working dutifully lately," Giovanni floundered, shifting uncomfortably under the unblinking gaze of the Borgia.

Cesare could feel the roiling anger running over inside Chiaro, and he flinched lightly. "Let me assure you, this will not happen again, goodman," Cesare conceded, eyes jerking up to meet Giovanni's through his long eyelashes, "or such an affront may have your cold body softening at the bottom of a cesspit."

Hours later, Cesare would be descending the steps of the cream-colored castle to the garden to join the gala with Cesare, and his eyes would alight upon a certain blond-haired beauty with eyes that were green as sin and large as oxen hooves.

* * *

6) Cesare likes that pensive expression Chiaro would acquire whenever he happened to see Lucrecia. However, because Cesare is not an idiot, knows exactly why he gets that look. The only problem that he has is that he wishes it was for him and him alone, and he knew he would make it happen if time didn't allow it of its own pace.

* * *

It was a slow funeral.

Cesare stifled a yawn as he awaited his turn to approach and pay his last respects to the fallen man who had had his tarnished reputation from birth.

The court doctors had done their best; with the body completely bloated from the water of the river.

Cesare was confused. He did not feel exactly saddened by his half-brother's passing, but neither did he feel quite pleasant. There seemed to be a warm weight pressing down on his chest when he thought of the tossed ruby-like beads of blood and his wide eyes that seeped tears slowly even as he gazed up at him fearfully on his last breath. But there was a sense of triumph accompanying his brother as he followed the casket with the other "mourners". He had won.

He thoughtfully gazed down at his brother's corpse when it was his turn. He looked down at the body with a feigned though credible look of detached, professional bereavement. The skin fair glowed in the sun secreted behind the sheen of clouds. _Farewell, brother_. He lightly placed his handful of dried rose petals among the others lying among him, tossed by the brass around him.

When he returned to his seat (eyes lowered, sad pout: the picture of obedience and sadness), Chiaro leant down from his place behind Cesare—he was forced to stand because of his lack of power, money, and connections.

His warm breath whisked by Cesare's ear and ruffled his hair lightly as he asked a question that would surely have gotten him thrown in jail if anyone but Cesare or Volpe would have heard.

"How high was his collar?"

Cesare snorted. A few mourners around him flashed their eyes over to look at him, scandalized. He cleared his expression and pressed a hand to his throat, as if he had just coughed explosively.

At least the dinner after the ceremony was good.

* * *

7) Cesare likes his whispers. As rare as they are, they cause him to have thoughts that a clergyman really should not have.

* * *

Chiaro stamped his feet lightly to send some feeling—pain or not—back into his feet. _Who throws an outdoor party in the middle of winter?_ he wondered, gritting behind his mask.

It was different today—the mask, that is. It was not uncommon, surrounded by colorful, outlandish, and occasionally jewel-encrusted masks of various aristocracy. He shivered and sipped some hot hazel ale, the searing liquid not resonating far enough to warm his cold-flushed skin.

He imagined the deep blue feathers sprouting buoyantly from the side of his mask (given to him by Cesare minutes before entering the party) freezing until he could chip it off and the tiny sapphires gaining a coating of frost.

Behind a trellis (that was devoid of flowers due to the season), Cesare could only smirk as his servant attempted to get warm and looked mistrustingly and resentfully at the others attending.

* * *

8) Cesare likes the way Chiaro acts when the latter thinks he's not watching.

* * *

Was hell really worse than this?

He could do nothing. He could only watch and _be damned_. Was hell really worse than this? A place where he could rot and choke and scream and cry and burn?

There, he could at least have some choice, or have some sense that he had at least _made_ a choice.

Hands (he vaguely recognized them as his own) grated against the stone floor, leaving red evidence in their wake bubbling from under the nails.

—_blood blood bleeding blood red anger red blood alone ruby blood red damned deep fury scarlet dark blood BLOOD—_

Those hands dyed red up to the palm snatched at unforgivably smooth hair. Those fingers knotted into his hair, weaving until they clawed hopelessly, caught in that stunning brown net. Those nails seeped into his scalp, scrabbling and biting.

—_help blood please hope blood blood scarlet blood hate no no no no nononononono—_

"Cesare?!"

Undeniable warmth—soothing, not blistering and screeching—clutched onto him. Some unknown being cradled his quivering form. A hand slapped away his own from his head and soothingly eased through the festered scalp and hair.

* * *

9) Cesare likes the way his demons flee from the peaceful glide of Chiaro's skin to his.

* * *

"Why must you look at me like that?" Cesare asked, a mock-teasing edge to his voice to mask the pain.

Chiaro was no fool. Cesare knew this himself well, and sometimes this caused him to wonder just how much he knew of this infatuation which he could not help. "I'll let you fight your own battles, but I'm there if you need me."

Cesare quirked a slender eyebrow. "Chiaro?"

"You want to wallow and be alone." Chiaro growled that statement out, and it was not a question.

"Perhaps, among other things," Cesare simpered in false lightheartedness.

"There's no way in hell that I'm letting you do that, you idiot!"

Cesare was not sure what to do, so he released a screech of laughter. It emerged with more than a little hysteria. _No way in hell?!_ When it died down, Chiaro was still glaring at him fiercely. The smile faded, and Cesare closed his eyes briefly. "I've been lost for a very long time, Chiaro," he murmured, tightening his blood red robes about his frame.

"Then let me find you," Chiaro snarled sharply.

* * *

10) Cesare likes his Light.


	3. Fifteen Things

_Disclaimer_:_ I only own the list (which is getting interesting to add upon), Thaddeus, and the tiny ficlets with each item_._ You Higuri owns Cantarella_…_and Orange-Maple and I will slice her to ribbons if Chiaro ends up with Lucrecia_.

_Warnings_:_ Slash and language_

_**Fifteen Things**_

_**Chapter Three**_

_**By Cory**_

Chiaro's bowed body—immersed fully within the abrasive woolen blankets—shuddered brutally again. His breath puffed past his quivering indigo-tinted lips in trembling wheezes. He once again attempted unsuccessfully to stifle a throat-tearing cough into the blankets, as his whole body jerked convulsively.

Cesare watched wordlessly, impassively, from the other side of the tent. Thick lashes pulled together slowly as he closed his eyes and released a stuttering, pent-up breath. The cold did not affect him, as his demons slunk about. He frowned as one idly trailed past his forearm.

_What would be the worst outcome?_ Cesare wondered. Deciding that shadowing those thoughts would lead to hesitation, crept over to his little assassin and smoothed his hands over his friend's back before threading his arms around his neck backwards.

Chiaro's body immobilized for a moment, as if her were expecting Cesare to choke his from behind. Though, somehow, he was just so warm.

"Cesare?"

"Go to sleep," Cesare ordered portentously, pressing his forehead against Chiaro's back.

* * *

11) Cesare likes the feel of Chiaro's body against his. He just wishes it was in a different context.

* * *

Michelotto could be distracting even if he was not trying. However, when he did make an effort to catch Cesare's attention, he was downright off-putting.

Such as the third day Chiaro had found himself under Cesare's command. The two boys had an awkward sense around the other; if one could leave the room when the other was present, he would do so immediately. They were wary and shy, always skittering around like hunted deer and babbling about something or other to take their minds off the fact that they were indeed perfect strangers and neither had any idea how to make an amendment on that.

This particular day was a Sunday, and each student of Perugia School solemnly inched through the halls to the chapel in their best clothes. Cesare was the picture of angelic serenity as he calmly took his seat with a practiced air of compliance. Volpe took his place behind him, standing, as one of his retainers. Chiaro held back and sat among the small group of common people occupying the pews in the back of the musty church.

It was a long service, the bishop babbling in a thick, nasal accent about something-or-other. Cesare innocently applied his usual façade of listening, while truly letting his mind wander to far more important matters.

But, of course, once he had centered his mind on the shaky relations of the Orsini family, something very potent distracted him: Chiaro casually yawning and rolling his shoulders.

Cesare blanched, watching as the young, yet slightly muscle-rounded shoulders swayed nonchalantly. His bright, impossibly blue eyes were trained on the bishop (who had slabbered out demands for atonement so much that a trickle of gleaming drool dribbled out of the corner of a withered, lipless mouth) with a distant, retracted glaze. It was a look that Cesare had seen many a time from his fellow scholars in arithmetical theory. His violet eye roved sneakily to the corner to observe his newest addition to his men, his angel of death.

He was good-looking enough, that was certain. With hair that could have been woven from the finest gold wire to eyes of shocking, mesmerizing blue and an almost childish face that seemed far too innocent for a killer so adept, he had an appearance that could have rivaled Cesare's own. He could be bent to Cesare's will, but it disappointed him slightly that a man such as him could not be totally bent to him unquestioningly. As such, his uses seemed limited, if not useless entirely. _It will be a pleasure for me to find out what makes you so interesting to me, my little assassin_, Cesare thought with the smallest of smirks.

* * *

12) Cesare likes (_and_ dislikes) the fact that Chiaro may divert his attention both when he needs it and when his plannings don't.

* * *

As Volpe gently smoothed out the red robes, he wondered aloud if his master was well.

"No," Cesare answered honestly. "Where _is_ Chiaro?" he demanded moodily of Pedro, who happened to walk in at that moment with a small basin of water for washing and a small cloth dipping over the rim.

Pedro jolted, nearly upsetting the warm, sudsy water. "I d-don't know, s-sir," he stammered out, his words tripping over each other in a rush to escape to appease Lord Cesare.

"Right here, Cesare," Chiaro murmured from behind the door. He swept in, ever the dramatic.

Cesare glared for a moment. "Well, get over here and help me with these damned laces!" he ordered, shoving back Volpe's hands. He was sweating under the coarse fabric of his blood red robes, and he had sprained his ankle in the hurry to get to his rooms to prepare for Lord of Pesaro's welcoming ceremony. He was on the verge of tearing his hair out of his scalp.

Chiaro clucked his tongue chidingly and stepped behind Cesare before the latter could command him to keep his opinions to himself. He flounced the long, stringy brown hair from the back of his flushed, perspiring neck to quickly and efficiently secure the ties.

"Are you well?" he asked distractedly as he helped tug on the rosary about Cesare.

"Of course," Cesare scoffed.

* * *

13) Cesare likes that Chiaro offers some small measure of security to him.

_

* * *

_

But I

…_no! PLEASE!_

Cesare twitched awake in bed, breathing heavily through gritted teeth. A taste impossible to mistake for its metallic warmth was seeping into his mouth, and his stumbled groggily out of the mass of sweaty sheets to examine his face in a mirror beside a window, through which gray moonlight dribbled. He curled his lip in distaste when he saw that he had bitten his lip through in the nightmare, with a thick trickle of blood creeping down his chin. It looked almost black in the darkness.

As he washed his face with a waterlogged cloth from the basin at his bedside, two slender and adroit arms laced around his bare torso. "Come back to bed, Lord Cesare," a pleasant, sleepy voice simpered into his ear, making very clear what the woman was intending upon their return to the bed sheets.

Cesare mentally flinched. Every whore called him that—"Lord Cesare". Even as he fucked them into the mattress, it was always "Lord Cesare" that was screamed, "Lord Cesare" that touched them, "Lord Cesare" that made it so they couldn't walk for a solid week if he had anything to say about it.

It was all wrong, simply because it was just replacement. They couldn't be him, though if he concentrated, he could block out the differences, save the fact that he wondered what it would be like if _he_ did to him what he did to these cheap stand-ins.

Chiaro always haunted his timid fractured dreams. Some were actually quite pleasant, like dry, unprepared lips meeting his in a kiss that was all but forgotten. But not all were bearable. Chiaro haunted those timid, fractured dreams in forms that Cesare would have rather gouged his eyes out than see, like him drowning facedown in a puddle of his own blood.

* * *

14) Cesare likes that Chiaro is always with him, never more than a call's cry away. But sometimes he can't help but feel that things can't stay like that forever.

* * *

Cesare was not a happy man.

It was that damned foreign captain that his father had hired again, Thaddeus, from the northern islands. It was obvious what he want from Cesare when he gave him those rampant lingering looks from his icy blue eyes and a slow grin with wide, white teeth.

He was "far too familiar", as Volpe had mumbled, with a muscle ticking slightly in his cheek, which was the equivalent of throwing a homicidal tantrum from Volpe.

_Possessive as well_, Cesare thought scathingly as the captain entered his room without even so much as a knock.

"Ah, Cesare," the captain murmured, if a little disappointedly. Cesare's eyes narrowed as he recognized that Thaddeus had been intending to catch Cesare preparing for bed—or, perhaps, already _in_ bed.

"In polite company, it is customary to _knock and wait for a response_ before entering another gentleman's room," Cesare growled, not even bothering to hide his anger behind his typical demure pretense.

Thaddeus laughed aloud, his bronze curls bouncing in time with his chuckles. "I think you'll find that I cannot always be polite all the time." His eyes shot from Cesare to his bed and made a casual step towards him.

Cesare was anything but helpless. He was a cool-headed young man who could have easily made a break for his work desk and yanked the knife out from the top drawer before the other could have taken more than three steps. And while the captain had good years of tactical and physical experience with taking down opponents, Cesare made up for that with the darkness around him that shivered in anticipation of his kill.

"Bit late for sparring, isn't it?"

Thaddeus spun and Cesare glanced at the half-ajar doorway to see Chiaro leaning casually on the wall beside the door, a hand nonchalantly resting on the hilt of his sword.

"Lord Cesare and I were just talking," Thaddeus murmured smoothly.

"And you were just leaving, yes?" Chiaro came beside Cesare to stand next to the shorter man.

Thaddeus hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, "Yes, of course," he supplied graciously, not even looking at Cesare as he bowed out from the room.

Cesare sighed. "He has his uses, but he is such an ingrate otherwise."

"Then stay away from him," Chiaro advised. He seemed irritated, as if the whole narrow escape was Cesare's doing.

"Maybe I should have killed him," Cesare considered aloud, only half-jokingly.

Chiaro frowned. "Perhaps not," he disagreed, and Cesare somehow found himself agreeing. After all, Cesare loved what he became with Chiaro around.

* * *

15) Cesare likes who he becomes when he's with his Light.


	4. Twenty Things

_Disclaimer: They lied. Dreams don't come true._

_Warnings: Slash and language--some of these are less canon and more humor, but others are my opinion of Cesare, Chiaro, etc._

_Author's Note: Yes, the shirtless Chiaro is fanservice. In a few, there are OC; forgive me. Thanks to Echo in the Dark for thingy numero eighteen._

_**Twenty Things**_

_**Chapter Four**_

_**By Cory**_

Once, I dreamed of angels and demons...and power over all man. Beautiful dreams steeped in blood and smelling of rot of the Tiber River. Pleasant nightmares that got me through the years.

I don't know when they began to change; only that my empty days were filled with you, and so the nights were no longer of importance. Then, somewhere along the way, my cruel, awful angel, you invaded my sleep. You ruptured my beloved agony and strangled me slowly with a single glance.

Gods may not cry, but they do dream, and tonight I will dream again of angels and demons...and ecstasy in your arms. But you will not be with me when I wake, because you are gone, having left me for an innocent maiden with eyes that sparkle kindly and hair of spun gold.

Damn the injustice of this world.

* * *

16) Cesare both revels in and aches in the knowledge that Chiaro is gone and is never coming back, but his memory is still perfect and fresh in Cesare's sophisticated mind.

* * *

"He's gone again, my lord."

"I'm aware of this, Volpe."

"How far did you send him this time, sir? Perhaps he should be here by now..."

Cesare gritted his teeth and kneaded his forehead. Volpe and Chiaro were at each other's throats in an attempt to better themselves before their master.

Volpe and Chiaro were at opposite ends of Cesare's world. First there was Volpe, whom Cesare used as a servant and confidant. If Cesare needed something done and rest easy, knowing that his whims were as good as achieved as long as Volpe was the taskmaster. He believed in utterly no nonsense and leisure before any act was completed to the zenith degree. Then there was rash, compassionate Chiaro. Cesare did not trust Chiaro as much as might have been healthy (considering that Chiaro was the one who had captured his heart), but trusted him enough to "protect" him and save him from being eaten from the inside by his shuddering, parasitic demons. As such, they took it upon themselves to embarrass and outdo each other in every possible service. At first, it had been amusing, but now it was impeding on interfering with Cesare's plans.

Cesare was preparing to coolly order Volpe to keep his mouth shut about Chiaro, thank you very much, but was interrupted by Chiaro himself suddenly opening the door with a jolt. He, surprisingly, was shirtless, with a small cut on his lip. Perspiration was running down his torso, and his muscles clearly quivered from exertion under the golden skin. His hair was stuck at odd angles and streaked with dark patches of sweat. He was panting and mumbled out a halfhearted apology to Cesare; his eyes, however, were trained on Tagio, who was smirking in triumph at Chiaro's apparent shame before his master.

Cesare had been standing near the doorway and had looked over with a raised brow when Chiaro had barreled inside the room, but when he witnessed that Chiaro was very much shirtless, his two servants observed him making a strangled but clearly happy sound, go bright red, and then stride away quickly, fanning his face. Chiaro simply pulled a confused expression and Volpe remained serene as ever as he demanded that Chiaro pull a shirt back on.

* * *

17) Cesare likes to see Chiaro sweat. There'something so forbiddingly exciting about watching the salty droplets trace his skin, though he is just so jealous of them.

* * *

A smile from Chiaro was a gift often bestowed, but nevertheless treasured every time. There was something was so alien but curiously invaluable about each brief flash of teeth. Cesare was uncertain if such an attachment to even the barest hint of an upturned lip was healthy. Chiaro was an enigma, a blend of grins and regretful tears, and Cesare wondered what masterpiece of God was serving him to affect him so with a simple smile.

* * *

18) Cesare likes Chiaro'smile.

* * *

Cesare had never had any qualms about sex. He had done it and he had liked it, and had not a care in the world who knew. He had experimented in his youth from a startlingly young age with women; he was no different than the other boys in Perugia school who took the liberty of charming a maid into his bed one night or another. Women were nice enough, but then he had tried men.

Men were wonderful, he discovered. Men not only seemed to enjoy his body even more than the women had, but they (for the most part) understood the loveless need behind the lascivious act. Sex, in and of itself, was one place where he could relinquish control and allow himself to be commanded in a way that was not shameful (depending on his partner, of course). And Cesare knew how to get any man he wanted: a simple show of false favoritism towards a particular lowly soldier, a doe-eyed smile and seemingly innocent lick of tongue upon his lower lip, or a little swagger accompanied by half-lidded eyes, and the man was in the bag—or, rather, within Cesare's bed chambers. It was all part of the little game he played, with him the constant victor. It was easy to ignore the occasional broken heart in favor of his grand scheme.

But Chiaro had been different. He was unconquered and unattainable. Chiaro, his knight-errant and peasant prince, was in love with Cesare's sister.

Was Cesare dementedly covetous, infuriated, haunted, and suffering? Most certainly.

Was Cesare in love? Of course not.

No, love was something Cesare doubted he had the ability to feel anymore. But Chiaro held a certain regard with Cesare that he felt was stronger than he felt with anyone, even his exquisite, long-gone mother. The link was as immoral as it was strong, and Cesare knew only Chiaro's death would bring an end to it.

The nightly enticements became few and far between as Cesare brooded on Chiaro's absence, wanting nothing more than to leave his station and find Chiaro himself. What he would do when he found him was uncertain, but most likely something along the lines of slow torture and the eventual breaking of the assassin's sanity.

Because that was the punishment that Cesare justified for his little assassin doing this to him. Cesare was weak with Chiaro, and for Chiaro to leave him was unforgivable—unthinkable, until it had happened. Every touch that eroded the demons from his taut skin and every glance that launched sinful fires in the pit of his stomach had been torn away without his consent, and for that, Chiaro would suffer dearly.

* * *

19) Cesare likes how his angel fears he may be lost forever.

* * *

You're like water. I used to grab at you, try to catch you. I'd think I had you, but you'd slip my fingers; refused to be contained. There's something fluid about you. You never stay in one place long. I know that know. You're as strong and impossible to suffer through as a tidal wave, drowning everything moronic enough to stand in your way.

I'm stupid that way. I want to drown in you.

Come back.

* * *

20) Cesare likes Chiaro's unique fluidity, in every sense of the word that made no particular sense at all.


End file.
